


his heart

by Amorpheous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Magic Realism, Post The Great Game, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amorpheous/pseuds/Amorpheous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock holds his broken heart to his chest as he hunts Moriarty down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	his heart

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by John Cariani's Almost, Maine. Some parts are capitalized and some are not. Some parts are written in past tense, some are written in present tense. That might be a bit hard to overlook, for some people, but there is a rationale behind the decision to do this. This is my first Sherlock fic, so I hope it's not terrible!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely janescott (on livejournal) who endured my endless insecurities about this fic and read through this fic multiple times to make sure that all the tense-changes were correct and to make sure that what I wanted to get across was actually transformed from ideas into words properly.
> 
> (cross-posted to my livejournal)

sherlock couldn’t remember what happened after he shot the bomb. not really.

sometimes he thought he did.

but then those memories disappeared in a haze of heat, all encompassing, burning heat and pain.

sometimes sherlock thought that the instant between the shot and those moments that his mind had deleted were the closest thing to moriarty burning his heart out he’d ever feel. (all pain, heat, and burn)

 

  
at least he would never have to experience that.

sherlock would have thought that his brain wouldn’t delete the first time his heart broke, but it did.

it went like this:

> He can see the understanding in John’s eyes, the assent. And then, Sherlock sees nothing except for the bomb laden vest that he had removed from John’s body only moments before.
> 
>  _i’m so changeable._
> 
> Sherlock thinks, ‘ _So am I_ ’ and pulls the trigger.
> 
> (the joint almost seems to creak as it bends. his skin and flesh depress around the trigger until the trigger has nowhere to go except back. and then with frightening speed, the bullet is pushed out of the barrel, cutting through the air right at the vest of semtex.)
> 
> Sherlock feels frozen for a split second until John rams into him and he flies backward amidst the crumbling building and flames. There is pain, sharp, bursting, terrible pain, when a large chunk of the ceiling falls on Sherlock’s leg. He cries out.
> 
> “John!”
> 
> There is no response. Sherlock can’t see him for all the rubble, dust and smoke.
> 
> There is pain.
> 
> His eyes scrambling frantically around his place on the tiled ground, surrounded by rubble, can’t help but watch how the dust settles.
> 
> “John!”
> 
> Not Moriarty. Who’s Moriarty? Only John matters.
> 
> Sherlock’s fingers curl uselessly in dust and bits of concrete.
> 
> “John!”
> 
> He drags and scratches his fingers against the debris until blood coats his fingers.
> 
> Morbidly, Sherlock thinks that red is quite John’s color and his hair the color of the dust that coats everything. He wonders idly if his own hair is that color now, all covered in dust.
> 
> Then there is nothing as sirens bleed into the night, all wounded cries and grieving moans.
> 
> How would John describe the sirens?
> 
> When Sherlock wakes up, he is in a hospital. He can smell the antiseptic, can feel the scratch of bandages against his skin when he moves his head to the side. Not daring to open his eyes, Sherlock merely tries to flex his fingers only to find them bandaged as well, and the dull sting of pain that comes with those tiny movements awakens him to the sharp throb of pain that the rest of his body is dealing with.
> 
> His eyes fly open.
> 
> All he sees is white when what he wants to see is oatmeal brown.
> 
> A nurse comes in and sees his open eyes, unnaturally still as Sherlock stares at the white ceiling. He wonders if John is in the next room.
> 
> Sherlock tries to speak, but his throat is dry and no sounds come out. The nurse murmurs and looks sympathetic, patting his hand before rushing out to get a doctor.
> 
> Sherlock wants to slap her hand away. He doesn’t want her.
> 
> He wants John.
> 
> (john is the one who sits next to him when he is sick and unwilling to leave the couch. john is the one who makes him tea when sherlock can’t find it in himself to speak because his thoughts are too loud to be spoken. john is the one who pats sherlock’s hand and comes back the next morning to make sure that sherlock is okay. and the next day and the next day and the next day until sherlock is ready to chase criminals around london with john again.)
> 
> The doctor comes in and checks Sherlock’s eyes, his hands, his legs, his chest, everything. All the while, the nurse putters around in the background (pours a glass of water, straightens the gloves, washes her hands, organizes the cabinets).
> 
> When the doctor (his name already deleted) leaves, the nurse comes forward and helps Sherlock take a sip of water. When he feels like he can speak again, he croaks out, “Where’s John?”
> 
> The nurse looks confused.
> 
> “John, my friend; he should have been brought in with me,” Sherlock explains slowly, as if speaking to a child.
> 
> “I’m afraid you were the only one brought in,” the nurse says kindly. “Maybe he’s one of the men who have been visiting you. You’re probably just confused dear. You have been unconscious for quite a long time.”
> 
> “Maybe,” Sherlock concedes, but he is starting to worry. John-
> 
> Lestrade walks into the room with Mycroft trailing behind him. They wait until the nurse leaves before moving closer to Sherlock. Mycroft begins to speak, but Sherlock interrupts him.
> 
> “Where’s John, Mycroft?”
> 
> Lestrade winces and takes a step forward. “Sherlock, John is- John- He didn’t survive the explosion.”
> 
> Sherlock stares at him blankly and Lestrade continues. “John’s dead, Sherlock. We had the funeral while you were asleep.”
> 
> And the panic bubbles up in Sherlock’s chest. John couldn’t be- He wasn’t- No. No!
> 
> “That can’t be.” But Lestrade shakes his head helplessly. “You have to be lying! Mycroft, tell me he’s lying!”
> 
> “I’m sorry Sherlock, but he isn’t.”
> 
> “Sorry? Sorry!” Sherlock can’t look at his brother’s too calm face. “No, you’re not sorry. You’re never sorry.”
> 
> “Sherlock…”
> 
> “No. Just go.” Sherlock doesn’t hear Lestrade or Mycroft move. “Just go!”
> 
> Sherlock ignores the nurse who comes in and tries to talk to him. She eventually leaves.
> 
> “John…” Sherlock stares at the white wall in front of him. He chest feels tight and peculiar. His heart beats rapidly against his ribcage. And then the heart monitor is screaming.

 

  
his heart had turned to slate and broken into nineteen pieces. later, the doctors told him that he had been rushed into surgery and they had given him an artificial heart.

sherlock could feel the metal beat of the mechanical heart that now pumped in his chest and kept him alive. he could imagine the little gears turning, but he couldn’t imagine feeling anything.

instead, he clutched a pouch to his chest always and had a hidden pocket sewed into all his jackets and coats. inside were the nineteen pieces of his broken heart.

a heart, that sherlock could not remember the breaking of. he had deleted it.

 

  
sherlock chased the man down the abandoned street until they came up to an empty warehouse. then the man turned on him, slammed into sherlock with his whole body. sherlock tumbled back, but recovered quickly, lashing out with a vicious strike to the man’s face.

(he deserved it. he was one of moriarty’s men.)

the man merely grunted before dealing a punch that made sherlock’s head snap back. in the brief moment when sherlock forgot to fight back, the man grabbed the lapels of sherlock’s suit jacket and jerked him forward. sherlock’s jacket tore open and even as sherlock fought back, the man yanked it off him and tossed it to the ground.

sherlock screamed.

(so loud. so unnatural.)

he lunged for his jacket, repeating _‘my heart. my heart. my heart.’_ with all the desperation of a drowning man as he picked it up from the ground and pressed the pieces of his (slate, broken) heart to his chest above his mechanical one.

the man laughed and kicked sherlock, sending him sprawled onto the ground.

sherlock’s eyes were cold and unfeeling and his voice was steel when he said, “good bye.”

sherlock pulled out his gun ( _john’s gun_ ), hand steady, and shot the man in the head between his eyes.

he only grimaced when he saw the man’s brains splattered on the wall and on the ground. pity, he had wanted to ask the man some questions.

 

 

> John’s hands don’t shake when he points his gun confidently at a man who stops spewing threats the moment he sees the gun. Sherlock feels something in his chest tug at the sight, but ignores it as he turns to look at the man. He isn’t the perpetrator, just a middleman, but he’s still useful for information.
> 
> Sherlock tries to focus his attention on the man, but out of the side of his eye, John is there and he always commands a part of Sherlock’s attention, the part of Sherlock’s attention that is always aware of John and what he is doing in relation to Sherlock.
> 
> What Sherlock sees is a man in front of him, all tense muscles and fight or flight (he cut himself shaving this morning, suit coat is crumpled, but the shirt ironed, skin paler in a band around ring finger, the evidence points to the man not being used to living alone, recently separated because he still has access to shirts that have been ironed, but he doesn’t know how to iron his clothes himself yet hence the crumpled jacket, watch tan doesn’t match the shape of cheap watch he wears now, and the skin on his wrist is red from irritation, probably had a more expensive watch that has been sold for money).
> 
> On the side, Sherlock sees a man who is comfortable in his own skin and perfectly relaxed with a gun in his hand pointed at another man (his jumper is clean, but his pants bore the splashes of a man who was running around in rainy London, which Sherlock knew he had been doing, and his hair is short and cut to military standards, his hands don’t tremor and his leg holds him up just fine, there is nothing in his eyes that speaks of fear or nervousness; if only John’s therapist could see him now).
> 
> Then, the man, fight or flight, chooses fight and lunges forward.
> 
> There is a sharp bang.
> 
> Sherlock barely jolts. When he looks down, the man is on the ground, clutching his knee.

 

  
sherlock snuck calmly into the warehouse, expecting it to be holding supplies and a group of criminals connected to moriarty. instead, he found an empty warehouse that seemed to have the lights on for the sole purpose of tricking him.

sherlock was immediately aware of the smell of air fresheners and he wondered what the people who were last in this warehouse were trying to cover up. getting onto his hands and knees, sherlock found that the floor had a faint layer of dust, but beneath that there was the strong scent of powerful cleaning chemicals that hadn’t been ventilated properly afterwards. someone had wanted to get rid of stains, possibly blood.

sherlock stood and investigated every corner of the warehouse and all the walls, but found nothing other than cleaning chemicals and dust.

sherlock left disappointed.

 

  
sherlock dreamed of john that night. the other man smiled at him and sherlock could feel his heart, _his real heart_ , pounding.

 

  
he knew that carrying his broken heart with him everywhere was irrational. the heart was just a muscle that pumped blood through the body. the blood circulated oxygen and the oxygen kept the body working. sherlock had a heart that was doing just that, a mechanical one in his chest. and yet, he couldn’t stop carrying the pouch with the nineteen pieces of his broken heart around. rationally, he knew that the heart in the pouch and the heart in his chest were no different, but that didn’t stop him from not wanting to let the pieces of slate go.

“i think it would be better for you, sherlock, if you would just mourn your heart properly and put those pieces away instead of needlessly clinging to a heart that no longer functions.”

sherlock ignored mycroft even though the logical part of his mind, the part that still tried to insist that he was a sociopath, told him the same thing. in fact, it told him not to mourn at all and to just toss the pieces of slate (not his heart anymore) into the hazardous materials bin at bart’s and just forget that he ever had anything other than a mechanical heart pumping blood in his chest.

it would be so much easier, but he couldn’t.

 

  
sherlock viciously tore the papers from the wall, scattering them across the floor. a strong breeze shouldered its way into the room from the open window and pushed the papers up into a fluttering dance. when the breeze broke, the papers drifted down like the silence that had descended hours ago.

lestrade had been the last to speak in the room. “stop this sherlock. let us help you.”

sherlock wouldn’t – couldn’t – stop. he needed to do this. alone.

alone like the first thirty-six years of his life. and yet, he hated it. loneliness didn’t fit him properly anymore. it fit like a too small shirt, a shirt that sherlock had grown out of.

sometimes sherlock saw a smile, a wisp of oatmeal, out of the corner of his eyes. he didn’t understand why the broken heart he held in his hands burned.

 

 

> Sherlock’s heart stutters a beat when he sees John come up from behind Moriarty.
> 
> “Sherlock run!”
> 
> But Sherlock can’t make his legs. He can’t leave John to be the sacrifice that will save Sherlock’s life.
> 
> There is something in the way that John grips Moriarty, something that screams of a fierce acceptance and resignation to his fate. John’s eyes tell Sherlock that it will be okay, everything will be okay, as long as Sherlock lives.
> 
> John kills for Sherlock two days after meeting him. Now he is willing to die for Sherlock.
> 
> For a brief moment, Sherlock sees John shove Moriarty down and twist his neck until it breaks, but that ends in the too loud sound of rifles being fired.
> 
> Sherlock blinks and John is behind Moriarity again, hanging on, desperate for Sherlock to live and encased in a vest of Semtex. His face is grim and, already, Sherlock misses his smile.

 

  
the papers lay abandoned on the floor, photos of crime scenes covered up sheets of paper lined with text that overlapped with drawings of empty rooms and notes on what little was found there.

underneath it all, there were photos of people, none of them smiling, except for the one of john.

 

  
 _“Traleigh, Slade Oak, UB8 6DW.”_

a click. a nod.

no hesitation.

a single gunshot rung out that night.

 

  
sherlock’s phone rang.

sherlock’s phone rang.

sherlock’s phone-

sherlock threw his phone against the wall and folded onto the couch, head down between his knees. his metal heartbeat, strong and steady, _boring_ , marched on in his chest and sherlock wished it would speed up, just this once for all the things sherlock couldn’t understand anymore.

 

 

> “That was brilliant, Sherlock!”
> 
> It really is, if Sherlock has anything to say about it, which he does, since he has just solved the case. It had seemed interesting at first, locked room case, but no body, just a lot of blood, no fingerprints, no shoeprints, no hairs, seemingly no forensic evidence, but Scotland Yard is wrong again. There is plenty of evidence in the blood.
> 
> Now the police have all the evidence they could want. They have a body, a murder weapon, and fingerprints. They even have the killer in custody still wearing the bloody clothes.
> 
> Really, it is just too easy. But then, John smiles, and solving the case (boring!) is worth it.
> 
> Sherlock doesn’t know why, but in that moment he doesn’t care why.

 

  
pacing angrily, sherlock whipped around, lightning fast as his mind jumped from image to image in his mind.

his heart beat in angry metal crashes as he pushed himself faster and faster.

there was no evidence.

there was no- impossible! there was always evidence.

but this time, sherlock couldn’t find any. he had never _not_ had evidence. even when there didn’t seem to be any evidence, if he looked hard enough, evidence always reared its head and then he would know where else he could look.

sherlock had been in the empty flat for nearly eight hours, scouring the every corner, cupboard, and drawer for clues, anything.

it had been eight hours and sherlock had nothing.

no person to tackle to the ground or shoot in the head or punch in the gut. no blood stains, no signs of a struggle, no odd marks on the wall or floor, and no evidence.

sherlock had expected to find another piece of the puzzle that was moriarty. he had expected to find and destroy another part of the organization that had once fascinated him, the organization he now lived and breathed to see razed to the ground.

he was going to end moriarty, kill him, and burn him just like moriarty burned john.

but how? for every thread, every person, sherlock found, there was another that he couldn’t, gone, as if that person just suddenly disappeared one day. mycroft wouldn’t give him answers, just said that sherlock should leave it alone and let him deal with it.

sherlock hung up on him.

 

  
one day, sherlock found a hand on his front doorstep. he had lestrade take prints and run it through the system. sherlock was examining the hand (it was cut off with surgical precision) in lestrade’s office when the results come in, the screen blinking red and angry.

he demanded that the search be redone, gripping the pieces of his broken heart tightly through the pouch.

again.

again.

then, when he got back to 221b, there was an envelope on the doorstep. inside, there was a photo.

the photo was clear and crisp: the severed hand sherlock held now next the body it came from— _moriarty’s body_.

(the body was perfectly clean and undisturbed, except for the unnatural angle of his head.)

sherlock called mycroft. no one answered.

 

  
mrs. hudson ignored the smell of burning flesh that came from upstairs. later, she brought some tea and biscuits up to sherlock. she found him curled up on the couch, gun in hand, but no holes in the wall.

 

  
none of sherlock’s calls to mycroft were answered.

sherlock continued to track down and destroy the rest of moriarty’s organization.

sherlock continued to find empty flats and storage facilities that held no evidence but the chemical smell of cleaning solutions.

his mechanical heart beat followed him everywhere he went.

 

  
sherlock walked quickly down the street, the pieces of his broken heart held against his chest. this was the last one, the last part of moriarty’s web to tear down. he was so focused on getting to his destination, he didn’t notice the man walking hurriedly down the street in the opposite direction.

they crashed and sharp anger bubbled up in sherlock. he turned around to see a shorter man with his face completely obscured by a hood pulled over his head and the lack of light.

“you imbecile! watch where you’re going,” sherlock said haughtily.

that was when he noticed that the man was holding onto the pouch that held his broken heart. sherlock froze, realizing that he must have dropped it when they crashed.

“give that back to me.” sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat and his hands trembled. “hand over the pouch right now.”

instead of listening to him, the man merely continued to hold the pouch in to hands, but now his head was tilted down as if he was staring at the pouch. sherlock tried to snatch it back, but the man stepped away quickly, sherlock’s heart still in his hands.

“what do you want? i just want my hea- my pouch back.”

no response. fear, illogical, irrational, prickling fear crept up sherlock’s spine. his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. _he needed his heart back._

(sherlock hated how his body, even his mind, rebelled against the part of him that could easily let the broken heart go, but ever since his heart broke, it was as if that part of him wasn’t really part of him at all, not part of the man that john helped shape sherlock into.)

“ple- please.” the word was unfamiliar on sherlock’s tongue. the one word he had never deigned to use. except now, it was surprisingly easy when it might mean getting his heart back. “give it back to me.”

the man didn’t move.

“that’s my heart!” desperation made sherlock gasp out the truth and when the man looked up, sherlock didn’t hesitate to say, “that’s my heart. it’s broken. it turned to slate and shattered into nineteen pieces. please. I just want it back”

sherlock couldn’t see the man’s face, couldn’t gauge his reaction.

when the man spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.

“can’t it be fixed?”

something tugged sharply at the back of sherlock’s mind, something that he might have tried to delete, but obviously unsuccessfully.

“no. it can’t. it’s broken and that’s it.”

then, something bright and painful bloomed in sherlock’s chest as the man gently opened the bag and reached inside with steady hands, something like disbelief mixed with burning hope.

“I can fix it. I’m a doctor.”


End file.
